The Hunger Games - KatnissxGale
by CityofHungerGamesinHogwarts
Summary: Okay, I only made this so I could finally see Gale and Katniss together. Anyway, Instead of Peeta, Gale gets put into the arena and has to fight with Katniss to try and win, but there is only one winner...
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, so this is my first ever fanfiction, I guess. This is where, instead of Peeta, Gale gets put into the arena. I wanted to do this because I wanted Gale and Katniss to be together in the end, I guess. So yeah, enjoy! [DISCLAIMER] I DON'T OWN ANY OF THESE CHARACTERS, SUZANNE COLLINS DOES.**

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must've had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course she did. Today is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once too, or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prim's knees, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed in nose, half on one ear missing, eyes of the colour of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged and begged, I had to let him stay. It turned out ok. He's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has moulded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cat, and grab my forage bag. On the table, is a perfect little goat's cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I go outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to work. Men and woman with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many of whom have long stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their names and the lines of their sunken faces, But today the streets are empty. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the meadow. Separating the meadow from the woods, is a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified 24 hours a day. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity a day, it's usually safe to touch. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly ad slide under a metre long stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is pretty close to come.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping all the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some ways before he was blown to pieces in a mine explosion. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

In the autumn, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples, but it's illegal to go into the woods. They always stay in sight of the meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises. "District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety." I mutter.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself, seeing as no one likes you talking about anything in District 12, Gale Hawthorn. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile.

"Hey, Catnip." Says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I'd said Catnip. "Look what I shot." He says, and I laugh. He holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it, "What did it cost you?"

"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," Gale says. "Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say. "Prim left us cheese," I point out.

His expression brightens at the treat, "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast," Suddenly he falls into Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a couple of blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" He tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "-Be _ever_ in your favour!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry the first chapter wasn't that long. This will be longer. Also, it isn't****_ as_**** copied this time. Bc reaping and that. Also, I've already gotten up to 40 reads! Wow! Omg. Anyway, enjoy~ [DISCLAIMER] I DON'T OWN THE HUNGER GAMES, SUZANNE COLLINS DOES.**

**And to the guest that reviewed this, yes, it's pretty much copied, but I can't really do anything until the reaping, because ****_that's_**** where everything changes. So yeah.**

I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin; we even have the same grey eyes. But we're not related.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat's cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible, but have a clear view of the valley. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and a soft breeze. The food's wonderful, and everything would be perfect if this was really a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at 2 o clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"We could do it, you know," Gale says quietly.

"What?" I ask

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it." says Gale.

I don't know how to respond.

"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.

They're not our kids, but they might as well be. Gale's two little brothers and sister. Prim. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lad or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

"I never want to have kids," I say.

"I might, if I didn't live here, of course," says Gale.

"But you do," I say, irritated.

"Forget it," he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave? How could I leave Prim, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did… where did this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between us. When we met, I was a skinny twelve year old, and although he was only two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping eachother out.

Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him.

"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight." He says.

Tonight. Yeah. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We do well. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a large quantity of strawberries. I found the patch a few years back.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. We easily trade 6 fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greay Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog, or two, well, meat is meat.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. We give the mayor our strawberries and leave.

We walk toward the Seam in silence, but it's not an awkward silence. We don't always talk, especially when hunting. There isn't any need to. I start to think about who would get picked at the reaping. Gale could get picked, he probably would. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times.

But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving, as we were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meagre year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of you family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. And now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single handily feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in 42 times.

As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, who was looking quite worried. Which I can understand. He's obviously thinking about the reaping.

Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of bread, greens, a few handfuls of strawberries, salt, paraffin and a bit of money for each of us.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go.. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"You sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a long time, I was angry. I wouldn't let her do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too." She says. I let her dry it and plait it. I can hardly recognise myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

"You look beautiful," Prim says

"And nothing like myself," I say. I give her a hug, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you could get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae.

I protect Prim as much as I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back and force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles. And I laugh a little bit.

"Come on, let's eat." I say.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special, we say. Instead we drink milk from Prim's goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread made from tessera grain. At one o' clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are at death's door.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square, it's probably the only place in District 12 that looks nice. It's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially If there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But not today. Despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. 12 to 18 year olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages. Family members surround the roped areas, hold tightly to one another's hands, But there are others who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd taking beds on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers.

The space gets tighter as people arrive. There square is pretty big, but not enough for everyone in District 12. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens.

I stand by a load of sixteen year olds from the Seam. None of us talk, we just focus our attention on the stage that has been set up for this day. It holds three chairs, a podium and two large glass balls, one for the boys and the other for the girls. And stare at the paper slips in the girl's ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them.

Two of the three chairs fill with the Mayor and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, from the Capitol.

Just as the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same every year, he says about the history of Panem. He lists the disasters, the storms, the fires, and so on. He says how the thirteen districts and the Capitol were created, and how the 13th District was obliterated, The Treaty of Treason gave us new laws, and as our reminder that those Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games are simple, but oh so complex. In punishment for the uprising, each of the 12 Districts must provide one girl and boy, which they called tributes, and they had to participate. There are 24 tributes in total, and they all get put in to a massive outdoor arena, which holds anything from a desert to a frozen wasteland. It changes every year. The tributes all have to fight to the death and the last tribute alive, wins.

Taking kids from the districts, forcing them to kill one another while we have to watch, this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how we're at their mercy. How we have next to no chance of surviving without them. Whatever words they are, the real message is "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every single one of you."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, mostly food.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," says the mayor.

And then he reads the list of the past victors from District 12. There have only been two, but only one is alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a middle ages man, who is always drunk, staggers on to the stage, and falls into the third chair. The crowd applauses but he gets confused, then tries to hug Effie, which she manages to fend off.

Since all of this is being televised right now, District 12 is probably the laughing stock of Panem. The mayor tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Efiie Trinket.

Effie trots to the podium and says "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

I spot Gale looking back at me in the crowd with a small smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor, but then I start thinking about Gale and his 42 names in the glass ball, and how the odds are not in his favour. Maybe he's thinking the same thing about me, bevause he stops smiling and turns away.

It's time for the drawing, and Effie Trinket says "Ladies first!" as always. She reaches in to the ball with the girls names in and draws out a slip of paper.

Effie crosses back to the podium, smoothes out the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it isn't me.

It's Primrose Everdeen.

I suddenly stop. I can't breath properly, I can't speak, I'm stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my head. It can't have been her. There were thousands of slips and there was just one with her name on it! I had done everything I could, and then she gets picked for the Hunger Games. One slip. In thousands. The odds were in her favour. But I guess it never mattered.

I hear the crowd starting to murmur unhappily, as they always do when a 12 year old gets picked, because it isn't fair.

And then I see her. Pale face, hands clenched in fists, walking with stiff, small steps towards the stage.

"Prim!" I shout, and my muscles begin to move again. "Prim!" I don't need to shove through the crowd, they all make way, allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach the stage and push her behind me.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"

I am the first volunteer in decades.

The rule is, once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, you are allowed to step forward and take his or her place. In other districts, where winning is a great honour, people are eager to risk their lives.

"Lovely!" Says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and_ then_ asking for volunteers..." She trails off.

"What does it matter?" Says the mayor. He looks at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't really know me, but there's a faint recognition in there. I'm the girl who brings the strawberries.

"What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward."

Prim starts screaming behind me. "Katniss! No! You can't go! Stop!"

"Prim, leave me be." I say harshly, because I'm getting upset and I don't want to cry.

I can feel someone pulling her away. I turn and see Gale has lifted Prim off the ground, "Up you go, Catnip." He says, in a voice he's trying to keep steady, and then he carries Prim to my mother. I climb the steps on to the stage.

"Well, bravo!" Says Effie Trinket. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Wasn't it?"

I say nothing.

"Okay, well, let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

But no one claps. Not one person. I stand there unmoving why they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. All of this is wrong.

Then suddenly, almost everyone in the crowd presses three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out at me. It's an old gesture of our district. It means thanks, it means goodbye to someone you love.

My eyes burn at the back, and I feel like I'm about to burst out crying, but then Haymitch chooses this time to stagger across the stage and congratulate me. "Look at her. Look at this one!" He shouts , throwing an arm around my shoulders. "I like her." His breath reeks of liquor and you can tell he hasn't bathed in a long time.

He's disgusting, but I'm grateful. While he talks I have just enough time to let out a small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my hands behind my and stare in to the distance. I see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. It seems so long ago, but it was only a few hours ago.

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, he probably fell unconscious.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket says. "And now, it's time to choose our boy tribute!"

She plants one hand into the glass ball with the boys names in, and grabs the first slip she encounters. She goes back to the microphone and reads the boy's name out.

'Of course.' I think. 'Who else could it be?'

"Gale Hawthorne."


End file.
